A red wine stain stays
seared into the wooden grain —
the table keeps watch
how their laughter filled the room
last time they were together
Jellybeans loiter
on the shelf in cookie jar
I wish none remained —
better emptiness than this
waiting for sweet that's hollow
Perfume on pillows,
a scent that's too strong at times
still wafts through the air —
sometimes the scent warms the room
often it dampens the mood
Burn marks scar the trays
where scones were baked lovingly
await scraper's blade —
to erase fond memories
of toppings with jam and cream
Much-loved song lies poised
in the player seldom used
my choice, not hers now —
ready to play her music
to ignite the glow we shared
No flowers drying
only books she left behind —
in the bookcases
that still cups the curve of hands
that held them by candlelight
Mailbox yawns empty
no letters, no messages
no texts, likes on screens —
she deleted her accounts
no one home, got no reply
So much left to clean
to pack, stack, clean and carry
yet I leave it still —
for the mess is a mirror
that keeps her ghost in the room
I dreamt about an old Victorian house that was abandoned
It was dilapidated and left vacant for years and was starting to decay
It was hidden down a long dirt driveway aligned with overgrown lilac trees
The grounds were overgrown grass that resembled a field of wildflowers
I decided to look inside, the front door was unlocked, and I let myself in
I entered a beautiful parlor with floor to ceiling bookcases and wingback chairs
Sticking out was a rare Charles Dicken's book, I took it and sat in a chair to read
I fell asleep until I awakened in my bed as I noticed the rare book in my hand
Where did the book come from, was I really in that old Victorian house?
The silence hurt
The empty hours
Aching to be filled
With meaningful activity
With encouraging words
The office abandoned
The empty desks
Unread bookcases
Files to be scrutinised
Would things ever revert?
The hubbub of colleagues
The banter in the corridor
The incidental exchange of ideas
The shared insights on the whiteboard
The feeling of team
A form of family
All a distant memory
Not a worthy competitor
Not a godforsaken war
Not a foreign power
But an infinitesimally small
Invisible enemy
Out of nowhere
Has changed everything
Causing a revolution
In the path of evolution
Economy thwarted
Jobs lost
Education abandoned
Caught us all by surprise
Made us hunker in our homes
Afraid to come out
Hiding behind screens
Hiding behind masks
Scrubbing hands religiously
Avoiding those we hold dear
Each interpreting the guidelines differently
Applying tailored logic
Trust breached
Will life ever return to where it was?
The best use of my space is not to use space,
With matching chairs, shelves, tables or bookcases.
And not to bring little, or big things into my lounge,
Because those things will occupy spaces.
Bare minimum’s enough, a chair and a rug,
The rest of the room’s filled with nothing, cleared away.
Leaving me free to create new and exciting,
Racy experiences, for my life to live all of the day.
And it’s easy to throw out, start over again,
Clean away at the end of each romance.
Leaving my space a fresh place to think and expand,
A new place for my next whimsical entrance.
The best use of my space is empty, free to walk,
Free dance with my own mental promenade.
Where me and my partner and all of our friends,
Can dress in a sexy, spaced up, masquerade.
(A List Poem)
Top Shelves:
in kitchen cabinets,
linen closets,
refrigerators,
bookcases,
and storage lockers.
Hooks;
on garage pegboards,
porch ceilings,
and in clothes closets.
Tree limbs:
for hanging;
bird-feeders,
tire swings,
and wind chimes.
The spot on the wall
where pictures & paintings
need to be hung.
Grandchildren,
or almost anyone,
who wants a hug.
If you’re like me--
top out at five-three—
everything – simply everything
seems too high up.
.
It's my day off
And I need to rest
So for the work week
I'll be at my best.
There's chores to do,
Well of course there are.
If I don't start soon
I won't get far.
Laundry and dishes
And wash the floors,
Clean the bathroom,
The most hated of chores.
Clean the birdcages.
They're messy but sweet
And no one would call
My desktop neat.
The dust on the bookcases
Is about an inch thick
So a dust cloth or garden hose,
Just take your pick.
The plants are drooping,
They're thirsty as well.
All week I've let
This place go to hell.
No time for T.V.
No time to write.
If I don't start now
I'll be cleaning all night.
It's my day off.
Off from what ? I say.
I work hard at my job
But I'll work harder today.
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